


The Final Rose

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Adult SMH Team, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Career Ending Injuries, Doctor Justin "Ransom" Oluransi, Fluff and Crack, M/M, NHL player Adam "Holster" Birkholtz, POV Alternating, Post-Graduation, Reality TV Host Adam "Holster" Birkholtz, suspend your disbelief
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-28 11:42:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13903284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: In only a few short minutes, a limousine would pull up and deposit the first batch of gorgeous women into his lap. Then another limousine would provide the second round. And then a third. His only job would be to determine which women he found most attractive, with which he could see a potential for love.As if the situation weren’t surreal enough, he’d had only two weeks to prepare for the next several months of his life. Two weeks to turn his life upside down.As usual, he blamed Lardo.Justin Oluransi quits his job and goes on the reality dating TV show The Bachelor looking to find love. It should be simple, but what he finds is nothing he (or Bachelor host Adam Birkholtz) could ever have imagined of in their wildest dreams.





	1. Prequel: Before the Show

**Author's Note:**

> The Bachelor is terrible and I love it, and so I'm making one of the more absurd pieces of (crossover?) fic I've ever written. As such, it requires a good deal of belief suspension and absurdity acceptance (and just a bit of good-willed humor). I hope it rewards your faith.

Justin stood outside the mansion, fiddling with the cufflinks hooked to his deep purple tuxedo. It was a clear night in Los Angeles, and the fresh breeze wafted through, carrying the hint of the aftershave he’d carefully applied.

 

In only a few short minutes, a limousine would pull up and deposit the first batch of gorgeous women into his lap. Then another limousine would provide the second round. And then a third. His only job would be to determine which women he found most attractive, with which he could see a potential for love.

 

As if the situation weren’t surreal enough, he’d had only two weeks to prepare for the next several months of his life. Two weeks to turn his life upside down.

 

As usual, he blamed Lardo.

 

 

 

_Two weeks ago_

 

“Justin, it’s great to meet you.”

 

Justin swiveled around on the spot, his shoes squeaking across the tiled floor of the office. For a second, he couldn’t tell if it was the bright LA sunshine or the gleaming white teeth and platinum blond hair blinding him. A glossy sheen emanated from the impeccably dressed, petite woman before him, and she seemed to repel anything which might have tarnished her aura.

 

“Uh, hello,” he said.

 

The woman held out her hand, and they exchanged a firm handshake. Her smile widened.

 

“I’m sure you have a few questions, and we certainly will answer all of them. We also appreciate you flying out here from Boston.”

 

“Right,” he said.

 

“I’m Marissa Callaway, by the way,” she added, and without warning, began walking down the hallway, her kitten heels clacking sharply across the floor. He realized belatedly that he was supposed to follow her crisp step, and he hurried to match her brisk pace. She continued, unperturbed. “This whole situation is a bit unusual, you know. Normally we know our contestants better beforehand, but your background is spotless and you come with excellent references.”

 

“I do?”

 

“Of course. We’ve already interviewed all the people listed on my application, and there’s not a blemish to your name. Well, there was one of your friends, the one who insisted on being called Shitty, and he offered up a few stories from your college days, but really, most people have much worse.” If possible, her smile brightened even further. He swore it even sparkled.

 

He followed her into a plush, well-furnished office. A tasteful smattering of photos dotted the wall, each of them portraying couples who could have walked straight off of a runway. A hint of perfume suffused the air.

 

“Sit,” she ordered, gesturing to a chair in front of an oak desk.

 

Justin sat.

 

“So, obviously as this is rather last minute, we have quite a few preparations to make in a short period of time.”  


“Preparations for what?”

 

“For the show, of course,” she said, almost dismissively. She’d pulled out a moleskin notebook and unlocked the heart-shaped latch on its outside. A fountain pen lay poised in her hand.

 

“The show? Am I on it then?”

 

For the first time, Marissa’s smile faltered. A slight crease marred her otherwise perfect forehead.

 

“Justin,” she said slowly, “why do you think you’re here?”

 

Of course he knew, except now—now he wasn’t so sure. He’d received a call saying that he’d been selected to be on _The Bachelor_ , and then he’d spent fifteen minutes laughing at the earnest woman on the phone before telling her she must have made a mistake. When she assured him that no, she was quite sure she was correct, he’d hung up the phone, thinking that it was just a stupid prank.

 

Then she’d called back, again, and insisted on repeating the same spiel again. It was absurd, absolutely absurd. He’d laughed her off the phone again before calling Lardo to report on what had just happened.

 

To his surprise, though, Lardo hadn’t laughed at all. “I’m not surprised,” she’d said.

 

“You’re not?”

 

“I mean, maybe a little, but you’re a hell of a catch, Rans.”

 

Maybe so. He wasn’t naïve or obtuse enough to deny that. Still, “You have to apply for these things, though. They don’t just scour Instagram for the next person. Either this is a joke, or someone applied for me.”

 

Lardo’s reply was lost to the shitty cell service he had in one corner of his condo.

 

“What?” he asked.

 

“I said, this wasn’t supposed to actually happen” she’d clarified clearing her throat. She seemed oddly subdued. “I said, I didn’t think they’d accept the video footage I submitted instead of an actual audition. But you were just biding your time after you took a break from your job, and I thought it might be entertaining…”

 

Wait. “Are you telling me…did you apply _for_ me?”

 

A beat. “Maybe?”

 

“Larissa Knight-Duan, how could you possibly—

 

His rant had lasted ten minutes, a testament to his cardio and conditioning more than anything else. He railed against friends who betrayed him, against the sort of people who thought he’d _ever_ want to be on that sort of show, against the stupidity of all reality tv. He’d huffed and puffed and at the end of it all, Lardo had just said, “But you’re totally going to do it.”

 

A statement, an order. He could never refuse her manager voice, even more than a decade later.

 

Now in LA, he said, “You want me to be on the show, right? But that’s for The Bachelorette, and that doesn’t start for a while, yeah?”

 

Marissa pursed her perfectly glossed lips. “No, Justin, we want you to be on The Bachelor. As _the_ bachelor.”

 

His brain creaked to a halt. They wanted him to _what_? To not just be a contestant but to the be the star of the show?

 

“Uh, you’ll have to forgive me, I don’t…I don’t really watch the show religiously or anything, but isn’t the bachelor usually someone who’s already been on the show? Which, unless I’ve blacked out several months of my life, I’m pretty sure I haven’t done.”

 

Marissa heaved a sigh, and for a moment, Justin glimpsed a crack in her sparkling persona. A tinge of weariness or frustration which hinted at a long, ongoing struggle. She quickly recovered though. “You’re correct, we do normally pull from our existing pool of former contestants. That was actually our initial plan, to be honest with you. But our top choice stepped back at the last minute, and none of the others…none of them were quite as appealing.” She flashed a smile. “Justin, you’re a doctor, a former college athlete who’s kept himself in good shape, easy on the eyes. All of our other options have been shot down for one reason or another, and out of our new options, we think you would be our most desirable.”

 

“Wow.” He leaned back in the plush chair. “Holy shit. And this is…this isn’t some kind of joke?”

 

Marissa rested her chin on her perfectly manicured hands. “Justin, this may be reality TV, but rest assured, we take this quite seriously.”

 

“True love is no joking matter,” came a deep voice from behind them.

 

Justin swiveled around to see none other than the host of The Bachelor, Adam Birkholtz, standing in the doorframe. Justin had seen him on television before, but in person, Adam seemed even larger than life. When Justin stood to greet him, Adam still towered above him by at least two or three inches, and his broad shoulders and muscled arms stretched the boundaries of his mint green button-down. Wire framed glasses framed a rather angular face and feathery, coiffed blonde hair rested atop his head.

 

More prominent than any other feature, though, was the scar which bisected his left eye, stretching diagonally from eyebrow corner to cheekbone. Alabaster skin, pale against an otherwise more tanned complexion, stood in sharp relief as a raised line across eye. The eye itself was a pale, cloudy blue, but his right eye shone sharply in the light. It was the only eye which worked.

 

Justin knew the story of Adam Birkholtz as well as anyone outside of Adam’s own family and friends. He’d been a prominent NHL defenseman, well established at the end of his twenties, when a freak accident had cost him his vision in his left eye. Even if Justin hadn’t followed hockey, even if Adam hadn’t been a former teammate of Jack, the video had still circulated far beyond the hockey sphere in all its bloody glory.

 

Adam had unofficially retired (his career only “officially” ended when his contract expired) before surprising everyone not by taking a job in the media (he certainly had the personality for it), but by taking a job in reality TV media. Jack had mentioned in passing at one point that he thought it was because Adam needed a break from hockey for a little while.

 

But now Adam Birkholtz stood before him, and Justin thought that if it weren’t for the eye, he could have stepped back into the rink and into uniform with only a little time to practice and revisit some old skills. He looked like a professional athlete, and if Justin was being honest, a handsome one as well. The scar only added character.

 

Marissa cleared her throat, and Justin realized that he’d been staring at Adam, entirely ignoring his outstretched hand. He shook hands hastily, and sat down as Adam slid into his own separate chair.

 

“You know, you look familiar somehow,” said Adam casually, leaning back and stretching his arms. “Can’t quite place you, though.”

 

“You’ve seen pictures of him,” said Marissa. “We showed them to you two days ago.”

 

Adam drummed his fingers on the side of the desk. “No, it’s not that. Even when I first saw your profile, I knew I recognized you from somewhere.”

 

Justin shifted in his seat, Adam’s curiosity burning through him like sunlight focused through a magnifying glass.

 

“Uh, well, I was college teammates with Jack Zimmerman. In hockey I mean.”

 

“That’s it!” Adam crowed, jumping to his feet. “I must have seen you in a picture in his apartment. And Bitty—well, obviously you know Bitty.”

 

He nodded. “I was one of the groomsmen at the wedding.”

 

“Really? I was there as well, and I feel like I would have—well, it was a large wedding, I guess. And I was pretty wasted, to be honest. You know how it is, eh, Marissa?”

 

Justin chuckled, while Marissa shot a venomous look at both of them.

 

“Anyways, it’ll be nice to have another hockey person around,” said Adam. “That’s assuming you’re in, right, Justin?”

 

Justin opened his mouth to insist that he hadn’t committed to anything yet, that this must still be some large, cosmic joke because how could _he_ be the star of a reality tv series? But there was something insistent and earnest in Adam’s eyes, and despite the veneer of glamor coating the surface of the office, his gaze struck him as entirely, sincerely genuine. He trusted Adam, somehow, even though there was no logic to this assumption. It struck him like instinct, in a way he’d rarely experienced he left hockey.

 

“Right,” he heard himself say, swallowing in an attempt to wet his arid mouth. “Of course I will.”

 

“Great,” said Adam, and he slapped Justin on the back with a broad hand. “It’s all up to Marissa from here. We’ll be in touch.”

 

Justin watched him leave, only turning around when Marissa cleared her throat sharply. She greeted him with an even sharper smile. “Now, about that paperwork?”

 

 

 

The show had been generous enough to provide accommodations for the next two nights. Then he would return to Boston, pack up his necessary belongings, and return immediately back to LA. He’d recently stepped from his position as orthopedic specialist at Mass General, trying to figure out what his next step would be, so it was truly a stroke of luck that he didn’t need to deal with a job at the moment.

 

It was entirely another stroke of luck that the Falconers happened to be playing the LA Kings the next night, and they’d flown in that morning.

 

“Hey buddy,” he said.

 

“Ransom?” said Jack. “Uh, hello.”

 

Jack always sounded vaguely bewildered on the phone, like he’d forgotten about the possibilities of long distance communication, but Justin could forgive him this time around.

 

“So, I’m in L.A.”

 

“You are? Wait, really?”

 

“Yeah, and unless you have urgent plans tonight, I really could use someone to talk to tonight.”

 

A pause, then the sound like the flipping of pages. Jack still kept his calendar on paper. “No, I think there’s nothing so important I can’t skip.”

 

“Great. Because you are not going to believe what I need to tell you.”

 

 

 

They met for dinner at the sort of place which still, at age thirty-two, made him feel like an imposter in his own skin. A warm face towel awaited him at the table, and a bottle of wine already stood on the table, compliments of the house. Jack sported his gameday suit, but Justin couldn’t shake the nagging sensation that he’d seriously underdressed with only a blazer.

 

“I didn’t realize you were going to propose to me, Jack,” he joked.

 

Jack frowned. “I don’t understand.”

 

He gestured around. “Look at this place? Fancy much?”

 

“Oh, well, it is…discrete,” said Jack, as he poured each of them a glass of wine. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted to tell me, so I just called ahead and requested a corner table. They’re used to dealing with…people who might be recognized.”

 

“Dude, it’s okay. You can just say you’re famous. You’ve been on not one but three _Sports Illustrated_ covers, and _People_ did a special on your wedding.”

 

Jack grimaced. “You see the point.”

 

“Yeah, I do.” It was actually a very thoughtful gesture on Jack’s part, and Ransom might have dwelled more on it if he didn’t realize that Jack would hate any more focus drawn to him. Instead of prolonging, the agony, he went straight to business. “You know Adam Birkholtz.”

 

Jack paused mid-sip of wine. “Of course. We played together for five years. He was at my wedding. Not that he remembers much of it—Tater had to drag him home for an early night.”

 

“Are you guys still friends then?”

 

Now the curiosity settled in. He recognized the masked inquiries lurking in the corner of Jack’s mouth, the careful way he pressed the napkin to the corner of his mouth. “Not as close as we were then. Once he started playing for the Rangers, we’d still get dinner if we were playing each other, but I haven’t seen him much recently. He also…stepped away a bit after the accident.”

 

“But you know what he’s doing now.”

 

Jack rolled his eyes. “Bitty loves that show, you know? I don’t see why. He hates most of the men on the show, says they’re not good enough. But he and his mom still have a bracket. Like fantasy sports, but for reality tv.”

 

“Well, I hope he won’t hate the next guy on the show.”

 

“Oh?” Jack arched an eyebrow. “And why’s that?”

 

“Because I’m going to be the next Bachelor.”

 

Throughout their time in college, and in the decade of friendship to follow, Ransom had witnessed dozens of patented Jack Zimmerman expressions. There were those related to hockey, such as his competition face (somewhere between mildly constipated and contemplating murder, depending on the game), his stressed face, his genuinely happy face (much more common after Bitty), and countless others.

 

He’d never witnessed quite the combination of shock and utter horror which crossed Jack’s face right then.

 

“You’re _what_?!”

 

It took all of the appetizer course and most of the main meal for Justin to talk through the situation, mostly because Jack’s brain had shorted out early on. By the end of the conversation, though, he’d managed to convince Jack that yes, this was real, and no, all that time in the hospital hadn’t finally snapped his brain off its stem.

 

“I mean, I was taking a break from work anyways,” he said. “I needed a break, something a little different, just for a while, you know?”

 

“You could’ve just taken a vacation.”

 

“I think I’ll get to go on several vacations, as it so happens.”

 

Jack twirled the last of his steak on his fork, uncharacteristically aimless in his actions. It might have taken a dozen years, but Justin thought he might have genuinely broken Jack Zimmerman. He took another sip of his own wine.

 

“If this is what you want?” said Jack.

 

“I like to think I’m a decent guy who won’t make any stupid mistakes. Best case scenario, I find someone I really love. Worst case, I go back a little richer and a little more well-travelled. Plus,” he added, the thought coming to him, “I’ll have Adam Birkholtz looking after my best interests.”

 

Jack huffed out a laugh. “I always thought you two might get on. You might have met at Bits’ and my wedding if he hadn’t been so wasted.” He considered his bite of steak a moment longer. “Think he’s calmed down a bit since he left the league.”

 

“He seems like a good guy.” Once again, Justin realized he had no actual proof of this fact, just a gut instinct. He felt the need to qualify. “Not that we talked for too long.”

 

“He is a good guy.” Jack swallowed his steak at long last. “Can’t say I saw him going into reality television, but then, I didn’t really see what happened to him on the ice either.”

 

“You never know what life’s going to throw at you. Look at you and Bitty! Bet you never saw that coming.”

 

Jack suddenly groaned, and Justin wondered if he’d said something wrong. He thought it was fairly common sense that Jack had never expected Bitty to enter his life. He’d even said as much in their wedding vows.

 

“I just remembered,” said Jack. “Bitty’s never going to shut up about this. He’ll even let the kids stay up late to watch, I bet.”

 

He just laughed at Jack. “I can’t wait to hear how you explain this to Chris and Izzy.”

 

“And Bitty’s mom! Her book club’s going to have a fit.”

 

“That’s why I’m doing this,” he said. “For the book clubs of middle-aged Georgian moms.”

 

At the end of the dinner, at the end of the day, at the end of those two weeks of prep, he still wasn’t sure he could name precisely why he’d decided to go along with Lardo’s insane idea.

 

 But two weeks later at the Bachelor Mansion in L.A., there he stood, Adam Birkholtz off to the side, giving him an enthusiastic thumbs up, his eyes gleaming in the light.

 

The first limo pulled up, and a long, thin leg clad in golden heels emerged.

 

The journey had just begun.

 


	2. Week 0: Adam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Adam really likes the new Bachelor, but it's totally normal, and the production crew is skeptical as hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to origincountry for beta-ing and for your patience in waiting for me to write this chapter. Much more to come still!

Adam Birkholtz watched as Justin Oluransi stood at the precipice of the driveway, awaiting the hordes of beautiful women who were about to cascade upon him and fought back a knowing smile. Every show lead displayed some nerves, particularly at the beginning of the process, but Justin comported himself with remarkable composure. If he hadn’t already known the man by now, he might not have been able to glimpse the telltale signs of anxiety, such as the fidgeting of his left hand or the way he kept lifting his hands towards his tie as if to tug it before catching himself mid-motion. He was by no means a seasoned professional, but he hid his relative inexperience well.

 

Of course, he’d expected nothing less. The show’s production team had researched him thoroughly, and reports called him cool as a cucumber, well-suited for handling pressure. Well, most reports. Several from his college friends, including the one who’d actually submitted his application (one Larissa Knight-Duan), had been a bit more upfront about his past struggles with anxiety while in undergrad. That had been when he’d reached out to Jack Zimmerman.

 

“Zimmboni, my man, how’s it cracking nowadays?”

 

Adam didn’t need to see Jack’s face over the phone to envision his contorted, pained response to that greeting.

 

“Hey Adam.”

 

“Look, I know you’re a busy man, so I won’t keep you for too long here, but I need to ask you a question. It’s about your old friend Justin Oluransi.”

 

Again, he didn’t need to see Jack’s face to know that Jack’s hackles were raised. Jack Zimmerman had always been entirely too predictable in his personal interactions, if not on the ice. Jack’s husband, Bitty, once told him that Jack used to be even more robotic, which quite frankly, he found difficult to believe; though sometimes, if he squinted, he could see the lingering traces of his stodgier past.

 

“What about him?”

 

“Bear with me here, and please don’t ask too many questions because I can’t answer them, but is he, you know, is he calm? Like does he handle pressure?”

 

“Of course. He’s a doctor.”

 

“Right, I got that, but I was talking to your old pal Shitty recently, and he said that Justin has, well, a history of the occasional anxiety attack. Or something to that effect.”

 

He heard the crash of something in the background, followed by a sharp, “Christopher, no!” from off in the distance. He hadn’t seen Jack’s children in several years, but they must have been well on their way to fully sentient beings at this point, capable of wreaking mayhem. He didn’t envy Jack or Bitty their lifestyle.

 

“What were you doing talking to Shitty?” asked Jack, almost peevishly.

 

“That’s top-secret info, my friend.”

 

“ _Criste_ , you work in reality television, not for the CIA.”

 

“The CIA probably has less paperwork than we do,” he said frankly. “Anyways, I need you to answer the question.”

 

Adam listened as Jack yelled something in stern French across the room and smiled as a high-pitched voice responded with shrill laughter. When Jack returned the phone, he sounded somewhat flustered.

 

“Sorry, you know, it’s just…the kids, they don’t make it easy you know. And I think Bitty gave them too much sugar again.”

 

“No need to apologize. Now about your friend Justin…”

 

Jack sighed. “Look, whatever you’re after here, Justin Oluransi is a stellar guy. And he had a bit of a rough time in college with some anxiety, but then again, so did I.”

 

Adam caught his breath. Even years later, Jack still rarely mentioned his previous history with anxiety and the overdose which had altered his career trajectory so sharply.

 

“It’s been a while now,” continued Jack. “As far as I can tell, he made it through med school mostly unscathed, and he’s a good doctor, an even better friend. I don’t know what you’re asking these questions for, but you shouldn’t be concerned about him. He can handle whatever you throw at him, no question.”

 

“Hmm,” said Adam, trying to remain noncommittal, even if his brain was throwing a small party on the inside in celebration and in vindication. He’d been the one to point out Justin during their selection process after all, the one to first suggest him as an option when something about the application caught his eye.

 

“Seriously, though, what are you planning?”

 

“All in due time, Zimmboni,” he said. “In the meanwhile, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this little conversation to him. Secrecy and all that.”

 

“Are you _sure_ this isn’t a cover for some shady government work? I didn’t think they recruited hockey players, but then again, it makes about as much sense as reality tv.”

 

“Got to go. Duty calls.”

 

He hung up without giving Jack a chance to respond. The man would only hurt himself trying to suss out the reason, and between the job, the kids, and the pressure of being a modest celebrity, Jack Zimmerman did not need any more stress in his life.

 

And that was the last he heard from Jack. Except, just two days ago, he’d received a text not from Jack, but from Jack’s husband, Bitty.

 

 _Take care of Ransom, please? He deserves the best_.

 

Quite frankly, Adam thought “Ransom” could handle himself just fine.

 

At the mansion, he watched as Justin handled the situation with aplomb. In his personal opinion, Justin was one of the finer specimens, male or female, they’d had on the show since he’d started his gig as the host. Now it remained to be seen if he could entertain in words as well as looks.

 

The first women to emerge from the limo was a tall, elegant pale-skinned blonde woman, clad in a skintight red lacy dress and though she was only the first, Adam pegged her as a potential frontrunner based on Justin’s reaction alone. She greeted Justin with a warm hug and a little quip about him giving her a thorough examination later in the evening, for medical purposes only of course.

 

Right, with a doctor, there were bound to be at least fifteen of those jokes tonight. Still, Justin laughed in response, and he seemed genuinely entertained. The woman introduced herself as March, and she promised to see him more inside.

 

The second woman, a slightly shorter black woman with a head full of curls which bounced delightfully as she stepped forward, also piqued Justin’s interest, and he laughed as she introduced herself as April.

 

He hadn’t even met May and June yet.

 

Of course, Adam already knew the contestants, all thirty of them, though he’d packed flashcards in his jacket pocket for a quick review if necessary. Even though he knew them (and general information about most of them), he still enjoyed watching as Justin reacted to each of them. Especially on the first night, where there were thirty women, first impressions could go a long way.

 

After the first two limousines had deposited their contestants, he straightened his shoulders and walked up to Justin with a suave smile.

 

“How are you feeling?” he asked, elevating his volume and articulation.

 

“A little overwhelmed, to be honest,” said Justin. He flashed his perfect white teeth in a smile. “I can already tell it’s going to be difficult to make decisions tonight.”

 

“I can already tell you, it doesn’t get any easier from there. Once you move past first impressions, get to know people—you get attached.”

 

“Of course,” said Justin. “I just need to focus on meeting everyone first.”

 

“Then you’re in luck, I suppose. It looks like our next batch of contestants is arriving now.”

 

The cycle repeated itself several times over, with Adam and Justin exchanging a few words after every two limos. Finally, though, all of the women had arrived, and Justin retreated into the house.

 

Bob McIntyre was one of the show’s longtime cameramen, and he stepped over to Adam as everyone watched Justin disappear into the house, trailed by another contingent of cameras and producers primed to produce juicy drama for the night. A thickset man with a well-trimmed salt-and-pepper beard who had quite literally seen everything the show offered, Bob was one of the first people Adam had truly befriended when he started the job, and everyone on the show’s staff valued his opinion highly.

 

“He’s a good one,” said Bob gruffly.

 

“Hmm,” replied Adam in agreement. “Almost too good.”

 

“You think?” came a skeptical voice from behind. It was Maria McIntyre, Bob’s wife, and another longstanding member of the production team. She and Bob had met on set nearly twenty years ago in what was surely a better love story than most of the cast could lay claim to. Now their teenaged children, Rob, Tom and Evie, occasionally visited the set.

 

“What, you don’t?”

 

Maria shrugged, shaking out her long, coal-black hair. “I think he’s good, nice solid option, he hasn’t done anything to stand out to me yet. We’re still pretty early in the process.”

 

“I’m not even talking a good lead,” said Adam. “I’m talking good person.”

 

The corner of Bob’s mouth quirked. “Really?”

 

Their skepticism surprised him. “Do you have reason to think otherwise?”

 

Maria exchanged a glance with her husband. “No, _we_ don’t, but normally you’re the one who’s pointing out all their flaws.”

 

“Last season it took you all of five minutes to start critiquing Abby’s verbal tics. The season before, you thought that something about Louis’ smile ‘just seemed off,’” elaborated Bob.

 

“And with Teri, it was that she was too perky in the morning—

 

“All right, all right, I get it. I can be a harsh critic.” He glowered at Maria, who just smirked at him.

 

“So, you know, it’s not like you to be so complimentary. And that is all we’re saying,” said Bob.

 

Dave, one of the sound technicians who’d been fiddling with his mics up until that point, butted into the conversation slyly, saying, “Looks like he got your first impression rose.”

 

“Oh fuck off, all of you,” he said, as the three of them laughed loudly. “I’m never going to be nice to someone again.”

 

“Whatever,” said Bob, shouldering his camera to head inside the mansion. “That’s nothing new.”

 

Adam huffed in dismay. He hadn’t expected anything else from the production crew, but they seemed to be especially effusive and merciless in their teasing tonight. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you tonight.”

 

“Which one?” muttered Dave.

 

“I heard that,” he said loudly, but grinned. “My good one, thank you very much. Though quite frankly, you look much better from my left eye.”

 

Bob just grunted in response and Adam considered that a victory.

 

 

 

Entering the mansion on the first night was like stepping into an increasingly bloodthirsty war zone. With thirty women vying for the attention of one man and everyone desperate to survive the initial elimination round, tension thickened the air to the consistency of his grandmother’s split pea soup. He saw Angela lead Lauren H. (as opposed to Lauren D. or Lauren Z.) off to one of the side rooms for an “in the moment,” shot. A woman he recognized as Heidi was swaying precariously in her five-inch heels in the corner, and he hoped that she wouldn’t drain her glass of champagne too soon. The last thing they needed was for someone to drunkenly break their ankles. In fact, there seemed to be quite a preponderance of women in towering heels—one of the consequences of having a six-foot-two bachelor.

 

A quick surveillance of the room showed that someone must have kidnapped Justin for some one-on-one time since their bachelor was nowhere in sight. As if on command, May tottered back into the room, Justin in tow. He caught Justin’s eye for a brief, encouraging look before another woman, Priya, interjected and dragged Justin back outside into the warm California night.

 

He enjoyed this part of his job the most, the people watching. It was an unnatural situation, but the most natural, base instincts would surface from time to time. If Justin hid his nerves well, the same could not be said for all of the other contestants. He chatted amiably with several other producers and technicians, observing how different women handled their own anxieties. Several coped by downing one champagne glass too many, while others made fast friends and whispered with each other in the corner. Whenever Justin returned the room, everyone’s demeanor changed. Smiles broadened, shoulders straightened, giddy laughs filled the air. But Justin never lasted long in the room—inevitably, he would be pulled aside for more conversation.

 

About two thirds of the way into the night, somewhere around two or three am, he retreated into one of the side rooms to freshen up his make-up and take some time to himself. Contestants weren’t allowed to enter this room, which had been reserved for production staff only. He sat on one of the benches, pressed his head into his hands, and inhaled and exhaled slowly, preparing himself for dregs of the night. Soon, Justin would need to hand out the first impression rose, and tensions always climbed even higher afterwards.

 

“Mind if I join you?”

 

He lifted his head from his hands. “Justin, you’re not technically supposed to be in here.”

 

At least, that’s what he should have said. The no contestants rule included the lead, and almost every second of the lead’s time that night would be filmed. He must have slipped away, perhaps excusing himself for the bathroom, but even then, he shouldn’t have even made it here. And Adam shouldn’t let him in.

 

What he actually said was, “Sure. Just for a minute.”

 

Justin lowered himself to the bench and heaved a sigh. The aroma of pine-scented aftershave spilled over, drenching the atmosphere around them. A vision of crisp winter days crossed his mind, skating on sharp skates and smooth ice with only a frozen sun to warm his bones. He shook his head. Even if Justin hadn’t played hockey much in the past decade, there just an _aura_ , a sense about him which just shouted that he and this man shared a connection, something fundamental to their blood. That they’d each devoted decades of their life to a similar passion.

 

“How are you holding up?”

 

Another misplay. He should have asked that question on camera. But it was too late now.

 

Justin released a slow, shaky breath. “Just needed a second alone, you know? It’s crazy out there. I’m not saying I’d rather be in their shoes, but at least everyone else out there can take a moment to themselves if they need it. Me, the moment I step into the room, I’ve got three girls on my coattails.” He chuckled. “It sounds stupid, complaining like that. But it’s true.”

 

“You’ll get used to it,” said Adam dryly.

 

“Maybe.” Justin turned to him, eyes steady. “How are you holding up?”

 

“Me? Me, I’m…”

 

Entirely unprepared for that question. Not expecting Justin to care about something like the host’s well-being on a night which should have been all about him.

 

“I’m great,” he said. “Had a couple glasses of the champagne myself.”

 

Justin held out his hand, miming a champagne flute in his hand in a cheering gesture. Without thinking, Adam held out his own hand and bumped Justin’s fist, in a move which would have befitted a teammate more than the strange host-contestant relationship.

 

“That’s very hockey of you,” said Justin. He was smiling.

 

Adam plastered on a grin. “What can I say? Old habits, man.”

 

“Have any other contestants ever attempted to fist bump you?”

 

“Maybe one of the guys?” He considered the question, rifled through his mental list. “There was this one dude, pretty early elimination a couple seasons ago, he tried to fist-bump me after getting a rose. God, what a douche he was.” He winced. “Not that you’re a douche, or anything. Or that I am either. At least, I don’t think I am.”

 

Justin laughed. “I promise you I’ve seen worse. Besides, I’d be shocked if one of the women here tried it on me. Lardo definitely would have, but Lardo was just as fratty as any of us in school.”

 

“Lardo,” he said carefully. “She was the one who applied for you, yes? I remember Jack mentioning her when I asked him about you.”

 

“You asked Jack about me?” Justin seemed shocked, which was surprising. Of course he’d asked Jack, their only mutual friend (besides Bitty, perhaps). This should have been obvious.

 

“Needed those character references.”

 

“But—but Jack seemed shocked when I told him I was doing this.”

 

“Oh, I didn’t tell him _why_ I was asking. If the man can’t put two and two together, that’s his prerogative.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “I wonder what he was thinking. Maybe that I was going to ask you out or something.”

 

Justin’s jaw unhinged as Adam belatedly realized just how many and what type of conclusions he could be inferring. They both opened their mouths, one to explain, one to question, but at that moment, Angela burst into the room, her curly red-hair frizzy and freckles practically jumping off her flushed skin.

 

“There you are!” she exclaimed. “Jesus, where on earth have you been?”

 

Justin shrugs. “Here.”

 

Angela sped over to the two of them and began dusting off Justin’s suit. “You can’t just disappear like that. And god, we’re going to have to do some touch-ups on your face.” She brushed the bridge of Justin’s nose, eyeing him critically. “Head over to make-up now. We need you ready for the first-impression rose in ten.”

 

Justin exited sheepishly, scampering away from Angela’s assessing gaze. With her primary target now out of range, Angela turned to Adam and glared.

 

“You have to be ready in ten as well.”

 

He gave her an easy smile. “Angie, my darling, I was born ready.”

 

Angela sniffed. “Hon, you’d barely be on time for your own wedding. You should hit the make-up chair for a refresher too, just for a light touch-up. No one’s going to be scrutinizing you like they’re looking at him, but Lord knows it couldn’t hurt.”

 

He spent an uncomfortable five minutes in the chair while Susan applied an extra layer of foundation and concealer to his face. They never hid his scar completely—it was too recognizable, too prominent in his image—but they liked to soften its edges. The urge to hide the scar clashed with every hockey instinct ever bred into him, all of which screamed that he should display it proudly, that he ought to bear it as a mark of his time spent in the NHL, no matter how unfortunate its conclusion.

 

But television wasn’t hockey, and The Bachelor was its own creature entirely. It liked its drama and characters to glisten even as they imploded for the whole world to see. So he allowed them to pad extra powder onto his face, just above and below his eye. It smoothed the color of his whole skin, but he always felt they applied more in that area.

 

Once Susan released him, he knew the duties of his job. Or at least, Maria’s stern, expectant look informed him it was time.

 

He sauntered into the main living room of the mansion, baring all of his teeth in his perfect reality-tv smile. One hand held a tray, which in turn held a shiny new rose.

 

“How are we doing, ladies?” he asked.

 

A chorus of nervous giggles and inaudible murmurs of reply greeted him. Justin was ensconced on the couch, with two women practically draped over him. They made eye contact over several blonde heads.

 

“Justin, it’s time for you to make your first choice of the night. The first impression rose is all yours.” He set down the tray on the table.

 

He stepped off to the side, leaving Justin a clear view of all of his contestants.

 

“Twenty bucks on May,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth to Dave. May was one of his personal favorites just from their brief interactions—she was thoughtful, funny, and her eyes were a startling shade of electric blue. He’d seen Justin laugh several times at something she said, and his enjoyment seemed genuine.

 

Dave shook his head. “Nah, definitely March. He gets distracted by her whenever she does something.”

 

Sure enough, March shook out her tightly-curled hair in a quick recalibration, and Justin’s head twitched as he caught the motion from the corner of his eye.

 

“Fuck,” Adam swore.

 

“No take-backs,” said Dave smugly.

 

Justin reached out for the rose and plucked it from the plate with deft fingers. He twirled the stem in his hands, flexing the fingers of his other one, before rising smoothly to his feet.

 

“Ladies, the night has been wonderful so far, truly,” he said, and Adam thought absentmindedly that Justin might have a decent singing voice. Nothing guaranteed, but sometimes he could detect a hint of musicality in someone’s voice, a tinge of innate rhythm or understanding. He’d have to determine it later.

 

“The decision is difficult,” continued Justin, “but this is a first impression rose, and so I think it only fair if I follow my first instincts.” He turned to his right. “March, will you accept this rose?”

 

March smiled sweetly. “Of course,” she said.

 

Dave elbowed him in the side.

 

“I’ll pay you later, asshole,” he mumbled in return. “And after I’ve had my nap too.”

 

Adam usually liked to nap around this point. The producers wouldn’t call him for a couple hours, and he’d already satisfied his curiosity with the glimpses he’d noticed thus far. At this point, the sleep would only improve his clarity and performance, which mattered more in the long term.

 

“I can’t believe they pay you more than me,” grumbled Dave.

 

“Don’t be jealous just because the viewers don’t love you like they love me,” he said shortly and headed off to his trailer for a quick rest.

 

A pounding on his door interrupted him from his lovely sojourn into sleep.

 

“What?” he said, blinking around the trailer hazily.

 

“Make-up wants you in the chair in ten minutes!”

 

He thought he recognized the AP’s voice, though with the cotton balls shoved in his head it was hard to tell.

 

The pounding began again. “Mr. Birkholtz?”

 

“All right!” he shouted. “I’m coming.”

 

Sometimes he still felt like the sixteen-year-old kid with vintage movie posters and a signed Kenny Loggins vinyl hung above his bed. Being woken up by some kid ten years his junior wasn’t quite the same feeling, nor did it make him feel old, precisely, but it straddled an uncomfortable boundary. When he’d played hockey nearly everyone else lived in the same bubble of no-longer-a-kid and not-quite-a-real-adult. They played a sport professionally after all—how could that have been real?

 

People said reality TV was fake, but it had been, ironically, the realest thing to happen to him, and the one which made him feel truly grown up.

 

He still wiped the sleep-dust away from the corners of his eyes as he wandered into the make-up chair. Someone shoved a cup of coffee into his hands.

 

“I can only do so much for dark circles,” said Susan disapprovingly, whipping out her brushes. “So please do try to drink.”

 

He used his time in the chair (and the coffee as well) to slowly emerge into wakefulness. After his half an hour, Susan deemed him fit for cameras and punted him out of the chair. When he stepped into the main part of the mansion, everyone collectively inhaled.

 

“Justin,” he said, assuming his most authoritative air. “It’s time.”

 

Justin stood slowly, casting one last look at the room. Then he followed Justin into their secluded “decision headquarters” as he liked to call it.

 

“Good night?” he said.

 

Justin nodded with appropriate enthusiasm. “This is the hardest part by far.”

 

Adam smiled widely. “Of course. Take your time.”

 

A stack of photos awaited Justin, available for sorting or for use as a memory refresher (especially crucial on the night with thirty women). He watched as Justin began flipping through the photos, putting most in one pile, and every so often, into a smaller, second pile. He glimpsed Amber, one of his personal favorites, fall into the second, and a small twinge of disappointment struck. She was an athletic director of a private high school, and he’d enjoyed her profile quite a bit. But it was firmly Justin’s decision, not his.

 

Eventually, Justin set down each of his piles, and Adam handed him a plate of roses.

 

“You ready?”

 

Justin nodded again, and his knuckles paled as they gripped the plate of roses.

 

He watched from the side as Justin called out the names of two dozen different women, as they all accepted the roses with a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug. He announced the final rose, as was his duty, and watched as Justin said one final name. Then he made himself scarce. He always hated the part where the contestants cried, especially on the first night. Besides, he needed to wash his face and exfoliate properly before he could head home and finally collapse into his firm mattress.

 

It was nearly dawn by the time he was prepared to return home. Keys clasped in one hand, he whistled as he strolled out of the mansion, into the parking lot reserved for crew and staff. His eyes squinted as the rising light, the wisps of purple and orange creeping into the cloud cover.

 

“Hey.”

 

He bolted nearly five feet into the air. When he landed, his eye fell on one Justin Oluransi, who had apparently decided to ambush him from his blindside by his car.

 

“Sorry if I surprised you there,” said Justin, rubbing his neck.

 

“Just come from the other side next time,” said Adam drily. “And maybe when I’ve had some proper sleep.”

 

“Right, of course. You need sleep.” Justin stared down at his feet, and his actions bewildered Adam. What was going on here.

 

“Yes, I do. Is there a problem with that?”

 

“No, I was just—I was just thinking that maybe you could come back to my apartment, the place they’ve got me set up in.”

 

Had he fallen asleep? Was he dreaming? “Um, not to sound rude, but why?”

 

Justin shook his head minutely, and Adam noted once again that Justin’s hands were flexing, whitening along the knuckles. Perhaps a nervous gesture. “Well, if I’m being honest, tonight was…a lot. And I’m just feeling fried and frazzled, and I used to deal with this by talking to people, you know? Friends? Except, I don’t have any friends in L.A. Except, I know you, kind of. Or Jack knows you.”

 

Adam stared. Justin was seriously standing here after nearly ten hours of high-pressure, high-scrutiny camera time, and he wanted to hang out?

 

“You don’t want to collapse into bed?”

 

Justin’s mouth twitched minutely. “Too jittery, I guess.”

 

Adam recalled, suddenly, the message from Bitty.

 

 _Take care of Ransom, please? He deserves the best_.

 

Adam sighed. “Fine. But you should know, there’s a good chance I’ll fall asleep within five minutes of stepping inside. And I do snore.”

 

The second the sheer relief washed over Justin’s face, he knew he’d made the correct decision.

 

“No worries. I have plenty of experience talking to people who don’t respond. It’ll be just like chatting to patients while they’re under anesthesia. Or talking to Wicks while he’s plastered.”

 

Oh, he’s kind of funny, thought Adam. And when Justin smiled at him, not just in his vicinity, it was hard to ignore that Justin might very well be the most attractive contestant the Bachelor ever produced. At least in his own personal opinion.

 

He was definitely a good one. For once in his life, Adam and Bob McIntyre were entirely in agreement.

**Author's Note:**

> I have the story plotted out, but am still in the middle of writing it, so bear with me as it updates. I also anticipate this being about 30k words or so at least, which, you know, does take time to write, but I have written things this long before. Also, if anyone has any interest in beta-ing, let me know! I'm always interested in constructive feedback.


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